When I married Nathan, we agreed to live with his parents temporarily to save for our own place. A few months turned into a year of me cooking, cleaning, and trying to fit into a home where I was treated more like hired help than family. His mother was polite but cold, while his father criticized everything I did. I stayed quiet, thinking hard work would earn their respect.
One morning, while mopping the kitchen, my father-in-law accidentally kicked over my mop bucket. When I politely asked him to be careful, he erupted, snapping, “Did you forget whose house you’re living in?” Then he accused me of never cleaning at all. A year’s worth of bottled frustration spilled out as I calmly listed everything I had done for their home. Nathan stood by silently, and I realized no one was going to defend me but me.
That night, I gave Nathan an ultimatum: we move out within a week, or I leave. The next day, he remembered his uncle’s vacant cottage, and by the weekend, we were gone. It was a relief to have a space of our own, free from constant criticism. Years later, we bought a small home in the city and filled it with laughter, late-night takeout, and bright colors.
Nathan’s father still hasn’t spoken to me, and his mother’s occasional calls are polite but distant. I’ve let go of expecting an apology. What matters is that I have my own home, a husband who now stands up for me, and the knowledge that my future child will never see me humiliated under someone else’s roof.